Serendipity In Your Arms
by PandoraTheFox
Summary: Set post-Swan Song. In result of Sam being locked in Lucifer's Cage, Dean has vivid nightmares. When his insomnia becomes too hard to ignore, he leaves Lisa's house and throws himself into hunting again. But as the demons in his head continue to haunt him, he pushes himself to the point of exhaustion. When Castiel returns, he provides a...unique solution to Dean's problem.


_**Author's Note: This is dedicated to CoolestCatEva, whose birthday present from me was this one-shot.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own the show Supernatural nor its characters. I just like to use Dean and Cas for my own personal amusement.**_

* * *

Dean stayed a week at Lisa's before he realized he was doing more harm than good. Every night he was plagued with nightmares—the dozen _what if's_ that seized his thoughts and detailed all the different ways they could have handled the apocalypse without sacrificing Sam in the process, the tortures he knew his little brother was going through simply because of his too big heart and too heavy guilt—and most of the times, he woke up screaming and clawing at the sheets. After the third day of having Lisa calm him down, Dean ultimately decided not to sleep. After all, he was used to sleeping only a few hours, so how could a couple more hours cause any damage? It was at the end of the fifth day that Dean began feeling all the _damage_—utter exhaustion, paranoia, never-ending drowsiness, eyes feeling as if needle points were sticking in them.

Lisa and Ben did all they could by accepting him in on such short notice and unusual circumstances, perhaps thinking that Dean was the last piece of their puzzle to make their lives complete. They didn't take into consideration that Dean's puzzle piece might not fit their hole as snugly as they deluded themselves into believing. But they were so _kind_ about it, giving Dean chance after chance even when they all knew deep in their hearts that Dean's presence just wasn't as perfect and fulfilling as they'd imagined. So in the morning of that seventh day, Dean woke Lisa up from her peaceful slumber (he was a tad bit envious of her ability to slip into unconscious bliss with total ease, but who could blame him?) and explained to her that this wasn't working, that he loved her and Ben but it wasn't in his nor their best interest if they continued this charade.

Lisa was a brave and strong woman; she kissed his cheek and gave him a six-pack of beer to take on the road as he loaded his things into the Impala. He kissed a sleeping Ben on the forehead and left him the baseball glove he had bought early for his birthday. Lisa assured him that she'd talk to him, and that he'd understand.

Still, it hurt like hell as Dean drove away from his failure at a normal life. But it just wasn't right for him, no matter how much he wished like hell it was. To Dean, living the apple pie life was like wearing someone else's skin, foreign and uncomfortable and eventually too unbearable for him to go on any longer.

So he went back to hunting, kept his gun under his pillow, and tried to catch at least an hour of sleep at night. Ben and Lisa weren't there in his crummy motel room, so he was free to scream and shout when he woke up thrashing at night and shouting himself hoarse for _Sam_. The name of his little brother was branded onto his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, a constant reminder that no matter how many people he's saved over the years, he still couldn't save the one person he was certain he loved (_God,_ he used the L word—how sleep depraved _was_ he?). Bobby called him daily when he heard he was back into hunting, sometimes to bitch about other hunters but most the time to bitch about Dean himself (though it was the only _normal_ thing about his altered way of life now, so Dean embraced the gruff old man with faked exasperation). He didn't sleep as much as he needed to, and it was noticeable in the way he presented himself on and off duty. Actually, he was pretty sure he would've passed out into a plate of a half-eaten burger and fries if the waitress hadn't had politely shook him awake every time he was threatening to doze off.

A tiring month passed before Castiel showed up at his motel door, dark and brooding and concerned about Dean's well-being like always.

"What, got bored of your pissing match with Raphael?" Dean said harshly, not forgetting that he left him too yet not able to reign back the surge of relief and joy he felt at seeing the familiar angel.

"Raphael and I worked out a tentative peace treaty." Castiel said in his usual stoic way, his gravelly voice rattling Dean's ribcage and running chills up his spine, "Heaven is far from organized and orderly again, but we're making efficient progress."

Dean arched an eyebrow, "Well, don't get me wrong—I'm definitely gonna send you a Hallmark card for restoring Heaven to its dickish glory—but why are you here? Shouldn't you be partying upstairs?"

"We have an impartial angel in charge of restoration and dealing with the casualties of Michael's imprisonment as well as mine and Raphael's previous battles," Castiel informed him, blatantly ignoring Dean's pressing questions like he used to do when he was still Heaven's bitch, "Of course, I'll have to return to further negotiate when the process is completed, but that could take months, perhaps even years. After all, the angels are _devastated._ It's quite tedious—"

"_Cas_," Dean cut the angel's ramblings off exasperatedly, "Why are you _here_?"

At the question, Cas suddenly became particularly interested in his own shoes, staring downward in an avoidance manner and staying silent for a few beats before he quietly answered, "It is customary to celebrate with friends, is it not?"

For the first time in weeks, Dean's smile wasn't forced, "Wow, Cas, it sounds like you're about to give me a promise ring or something."

"Promise ring," Castiel repeated, as if tasting the foreign term on his tongue, and added, "I do not have any jewelry with me, but if you'd like, I can—"

"It was a joke, Cas," Dean gently reminded him, smirking as he arched an eyebrow and added, "You remember what those are, right?"

Noticing he was being mocked, the angel narrowed his eyes at Dean and responded sharply, "I recall the fundamentals of humor, Dean Winchester. There's no need for you to patronize me."

Dean held his hands up in mock surrender and stepped out of the doorway, allowing Castiel to enter his measly motel room that didn't hold a fucking candle to Heaven's golden walls and silk furniture, "Far be it from me to turn down an excuse to get wasted."

"Recently, it seems you don't really need an excuse to do that," Castiel remarked, and at Dean's quizzical glance, he shrugged (a human gesture that looked as ill-fitting on him as that oversized trench coat he still sported) and added, "During the rare occasions of idleness, I checked up on how you were doing." Dean didn't know whether to be flattered or pissed off.

But since he was Dean Winchester, he decided it was safer to go with the latter.

"Got off on your little peepshows but not enough to make an appearance every once in a goddamn while?" Dean commented with anger he didn't really feel. He was too damn weary to be angry anymore; he'd spent so much of his life being angry—sometimes even in what he now looked back and considered the happy times—that he was just damn sick of the feeling. He considered drinking until he was too numb to feel anything a better option nowadays anyway.

Castiel didn't so much as bat an eye (or more like tilt his head, in his case) at Dean's venom, just stared at him intensely with those calculating blue eyes before he asked, "How long ago was it that you last slept, Dean?"

Dean sighed as he walked to the fridge and pulled out two beers (he remembered with a painful pang that the other beer used to fetched for his brother instead of the ruffled angel with him), "I can't remember. A few days, maybe? Here." He realized too late that Castiel didn't have the routine programmed in his mind nor the reflexes to catch the beer bottle that was thrown at him, and he flinched at the thundering sound of the bottle busting on the hard floor. Castiel looked down at it with indifference before the spill disappeared and he was holding the now unbroken bottle in his hands.

Dean chuckled, "I forgot about your party tricks." Castiel replied by opening his bottle and taking a long drink of the alcohol, his throat visibly constricting and Adam's apple bobbing as the burning liquid washed down. Dean watched the motion with vague interest before silently declaring he _seriously_ needed to get laid in the nearest future.

"It is bewildering how much I missed this." Cas stated, staring down at the bottle in his hands with a strangely thoughtful expression.

Dean smirked, "What, beer?"

"No, human interaction," Castiel corrected, "Angels are vastly different from human beings. They would not see the purpose of spending time together just to drink liquor and participate in pointless conversations."

Dean's smile dimmed as he took a drink and said wryly, "Not quite like the old days, but it's as close as we'll both ever get."

"Dean, your bitterness and self-loathing is both unnecessary and frustrating," Castiel told him with hints of exasperation and vanished before reappearing in front of Dean, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder—the same shoulder that held the brand Castiel put on his flesh and soul in result of raising him from Hell—in some form of a comforting manner as he added in a softer tone, "It is not your fault, Dean. You must realize that."

Dean tried to keep his gaze locked downward, but the angel's unyielding gaze forced him to look up. One glance at those big blue eyes, and Dean knew any attempt of looking away was futile. Castiel just had that stare that no one could look away from, all intense and soul-searching and understanding as if he saw every tattered part of you and had already accepted it a long time ago.

Dean didn't know how long he stared into those eyes, time slipping from his grasp like water in a loose fist. The ocean of those irises; the familiar smell of cotton and ozone; the shared breath between them as Castiel once again disregarded personal space and Dean for once not commenting on it; everything that made up Castiel filled every sense Dean had, and the hunter embraced the rare moment of familiarly that was just so damn hard to feel anymore.

They exchanged a peaceful silence and prolonged stare before Dean finally glanced away and took a step back, taking a long gulp of beer to distract himself from the tiredness in his bones and the hammering of his heart.

"So," He began with a clear of his throat since it was obvious that Castiel wasn't the one to prompt conversation, "How do you wanna celebrate your victory? We got the booze part down..." A grin graced the Winchester's features as he said, "We could revisit the women department again if you're up for it. This time, I'll go over what _not_ to say to a girl about to—"

"I just want to spend time with you, Dean," Castiel informed him bluntly, "You are my friend, and I haven't been able to talk to you as frequently as I'd like to over the past month. Just your companionship is enough to make this celebration satisfactory." Dean looked down, not entirely sure how to respond to that.

After a long pause, he glanced up and nodded, deciding to pretend that those words didn't send a pulse of life in his half-dead heart, "Well, I got two six packs of beer, a busted radio, and a box of cassette tapes." He shrugged, adding, "Probably not as high-tech and prestige as Heaven's shindig, but it'll do."

Castiel smiled—an action so rare and beautiful that it made Dean's breath catch in his throat, "Believe me, I would not have it any other way."

Dean despised the warmth that flooded his system at his reply.

* * *

The cheap booze burning down his throat and the odd, entertaining presence of Castiel made Dean allow the tension to loosen in his clenched muscles as he enjoyed himself for the first time in what felt like ages. With the quiet background noise of classic rock soothing their ears, Dean and Cas talked about anything and everything—the variation spanning over the heated debate of life's best and worst aspects to random, comical chats depicting both angelic and human culture. The steady sound of Castiel's deep voice sent shivers down Dean's spine and a warmth that roasted in his usually hollow, aching chest. That night—with no worries of appending apocalypses or national genocides—Dean was able to notice small details about the angel that he would have never even picked up on under any normal circumstances (by normal, he obviously meant the Winchester's sense, of course; the kind of normal that Dean both cherished and loathed for varying reasons). He noticed the deep, varying shades of blue that swirled in his eyes; the natural emotions of safety and content that his deep voice brought; the soft curve of Castiel's rough, chapped lips; the way the left corner of his lips lifted upward only slightly when he was amused; the way he looked at Dean like he was his whole world.

Nobody had ever looked at Dean like that; perhaps maybe Sam once upon a time before he grew up and discovered Dean was not this righteous, all-knowing being that had all of life's answers. But by his fond, tender gaze, it seemed Cas—who'd watched the birth and evolution of humanity all throughout the existence of mankind—actually found Dean Winchester to be more intriguing than any other being in the whole timeframe of existence. And he had to admit, that felt pretty damn good.

Unfortunately, as the hours continued to pass, Dean's ever pressing exhaustion caused sleep to pull at his eyelids, hell-bent on ending this perfect evening. He tried to fight it with every bit of strength he could muster, but as the sun peeked out over the horizon, every blink became harder to recover from.

"Dean, you should rest." Castiel said, leading Dean over to the motel bed with fierce determination as Dean fought half-hearted against him.

"_No._" Dean didn't want to retreat back to his subconscious, to the plaguing nightmares that left him drenched in sweat and fear. But most of all, he didn't want his only remaining companion to slip away from him again, allowing the dull knife of loneliness to carve out his weak, trembling heart.

"Cas, it's worse than Hell." Dean told him with thinly veiled panic, clutching the lapels of Castiel's trench coat like it was his only anchor to the bliss of consciousness, "At least then, I knew Sam was safe. Cas, please…I _can't_. "

Castiel hesitated, and for a moment, Dean thought he'd won. But then Castiel pushed him onto the mattress and threw the covers over him, no hint of mercy in his quick and stubborn motions. As soon as Dean's eyes closed, the image of Sam strung up on hooks of fire as two archangels tortured him wouldn't leave his mind. The pain Sam must be suffering—the pain Dean couldn't take away from him even a deal with the devil—already began to chip away at his heart…

Suddenly, the image disappeared from his thoughts as he felt a strong, overwhelming warmth envelop his body. Dean's startled confusion made him stir, forcing his brain to stay awake long enough for him to figure out what was going on.

"Dean," Castiel's quiet, almost silent whisper seemed louder than it should have been as someone else's breath tickled his ear, "Sleep. I will not let anyone hurt you; not even yourself."

Distantly, he remembered feeling two binds of heat wrap around his abdomen and a source of heat pressed against his back. But before Dean could recognize what it was, sleep washed over him like the heavy current of ocean.

It was the first time Dean had slept that soundly since he was four-years-old and living a briefly normal life in Lawrence, Kansas.

* * *

When he woke up, he was alone and shivering from the coldness that plagued the empty bed. _I dreamed it,_ Dean realized with a startling amount of disappointment, _Cas was never here._ But it'd felt like he was, and Dean was too sated to freak out at his disturbed mind that whipped up such a vivid delusion. After all, he did possess a pounding headache, so Dean finally convinced himself that Cas' visit was nothing more than a booze-induced hallucination.

"Here," Castiel said, suddenly appearing by his bedside as he pressed two fingers to his temple, "I can solve that." The relief was instant and overwhelming, so it took Dean a moment to register that the angel he believed was still duking it out in Heaven was actually there.

"Cas?" Dean said, immediately sitting up as all drowsiness faded from his system.

"I apologize for leaving," Castiel told him as he sat down beside Dean, "An unforeseen complication suddenly arose that needed to be dealt with. I smoothed it over with Raphael quickly, so our treaty is still in full effect." He noticed Dean's bewildered expression and cocked his head, asking, "Are you alright, Dean? I had thought sleeping would improve your condition."

"I'm fine, Cas," Dean assured him before he squinted at him, adding, "How did I go to sleep so fast anyway? You put some kind of mojo on me?" He wouldn't be surprised if an Angel of The Lord had given him some powerful, jacked up sleeping pill; stranger things had happened in his life.

"No," Castiel answered with a shrug, "I provided you with warmth and security in a soothing embrace that had allowed you to feel safe enough to let yourself succumb to slumber." One word sent ice shooting through Dean's veins.

"Embrace?" He repeated, horror and embarrassment coloring his escalating voice, "You fucking _spooned me_?"

Castiel blinked, "I suppose, if that is the correct terminology of the action."

Dean could only gape at him for a minute before sputtering angrily, "_Why_?"

"You needed an anchor to cling to," Castiel informed him slowly, like he couldn't understand what the problem was, "I was offering you the only comfort I could think to provide."

Dean rose to his feet, running a hand through his hair, "Cas, friends don't _spoon_ each other, alright? It's inappropriate." _And freaks me the fuck out, _he left off.

"I did not mean to make you uncomfortable." Castiel said, the sincerity that coated his voice making Dean almost feel _guilty _over his perfectly appropriate reaction, "I apologize for my mistake. I had just thought it would help your insomnia." _It did, _he admitted to himself silently, _but there's no way I'm letting you do it again._

"It's fine," Dean said with a sigh, desperate to latch onto another topic, "Let's just never talk about it again and move on."

Castiel nodded, seeming almost sad at his declaration, "As you wish, Dean."

Dean looked down and asked curtly, "So is Heaven expecting you back anytime soon, or...?"

"I will leave if you want me to." Castiel told him, his voice soft like he believed if perhaps he didn't say it loud enough, the offer would go unnoticed.

"Of course not," Dean answered almost immediately before he could give it any sort of consideration, "You can stay with me however long you want." He then glanced up, determination in his eyes, "But no mentioning of _this_ again, okay? Promise me."

Castiel hesitated before replying, "I promise, Dean."

"Good," Dean said, striding across the room to pick out another set of clothes that didn't reek of alcohol and heading towards the dingy bathroom, "I'll be back in a sec; I'm just going to take a shower."

"I don't believe you are capable of bathing yourself in such a short timeframe," Castile informed him before adding, "But until you return, I suppose I'll just watch television."

"Whatever." Dean agreed absently as he shut the bathroom door behind him.

Even under the scorching sprays of the shower, Dean couldn't wash away the lingering heat of Castiel's body that clung to his skin.

* * *

Dean lasted three brutal, sleepless weeks before he threw his masculine pride and boundaries out the window. All humans required sleep, and Dean wasn't blessed to be an exception. It seemed God was still screwing him over even to this day.

"Okay, so here are the guidelines," Dean said with bloodshot eyes, unable to look Castiel in the eye as he continued, "We don't talk during or after it; in fact, we don't talk about it _at all_. No skin-to-skin contact, no stroking, no caressing, and definitely no cuddling. This isn't some intimate gesture, alright? This is purely an attempt to preserve what is left of my sanity. Any questions?"

"No." Castiel answered, causing Dean to clench his teeth and nod curtly. With a long sigh, Dean slid under the covers and faced the door, skin tingling in anticipation despite the humiliation that danced around in his stomach. Though all embarrassment faded from his system as soon as Castiel laid down and wrapped Dean in a mercifully soothing embrace. As his brain went into sleep-mode, Dean's body was allowed to react naturally, pushing itself against Castiel in an effort to soak up anymore of his stability and glorious heat.

Face hidden in the pillow, Dean allowed himself to smile.

* * *

Every morning since then, Dean woke up to an empty bed. Of course, objectively, Dean was relieved that Castiel had taken his own initiative to make the aftermath as less awkward as possible. Though _personally, _he had to admit that it sorta made him feel like a jilted prom date.

As time passed, Dean's fondness for Castiel grew deeper and more profound than he ever thought possible. Even in his haze of stubborn denial, Dean could silently admit that something had formed between them that was more than friendship. It was a bond that Dean had never felt with anyone before—a bond not even he and Cassie or Lisa shared (even though he loved them both dearly). His emotions for Castiel grew blurry and undecipherable, as if the English language didn't have a word that could accurately depict the feeling that brewed in his chest upon just a single glance at him. But he believed Castiel could; he felt the angel whisper it into his skin every night right before the hunter fell asleep.

It took months of dancing around each other, of stolen heated glances when the other pretended he wasn't looking, of soft looks that lingered more and more as the days passed, before they acted on their undeniably returned affection. It was Dean who eventually made the first move and kissed Castiel one night right before they slipped under the covers. That night, Dean changed their once permanent position and made Castiel the little spoon, wrapping his arms around the smaller body and pressing his face into the angel's neck. At the change, Cas let out a long sigh full of content, breathing out the words, _"Olani hoath ol."_

Dean didn't have to ask what it meant; he was pretty sure he got the gist.

* * *

All the guidelines vanished after that except for one (and it wasn't by Dean's choice). Every morning, Dean would wake up by himself, but instead of feeling only faintly disappointed at the discovery, it felt like a bullet to the chest. He didn't know how to tell Castiel that it was okay now, that he could stay with him and not just vanish only to reappear after Dean woke up and took a shower. But his silence, Dean had discovered, was even more painful than surviving on no sleep.

But finally, one morning, just around six months since they formed their begrudged agreement, he woke up just as Castiel slid out of bed.

"Cas," Dean said, sleep slurring his words as he reached out and grasped the angel's hand, squeezing it tenderly as he whispered, "_Stay._" Their eyes locked, and a full blown, honest-to-god smile that was full of radiance and devotion and _love _lit up on Castiel's face.

He stayed.

* * *

_**Author's Note: By the way, **__"Olani hoath ol" means "I love you" in Enochian. _

_****__If you liked this story, please consider leaving a review or checking the follow/favorite box. Your feedback means the world to me._


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